


The Rustle of Wings

by TheSilverSiren



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: But Edward falls for Isabella, F/M, Gen, Hints of past Oswald/Jim, Mayor Oswald Cobblepot, Might become a full-length story if received well, Nygmobblepot, One Shot, One-Sided Love, Oswald loves Edward, Oswald meets someone new, POV Oswald Cobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29700336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverSiren/pseuds/TheSilverSiren
Summary: 'Gotham' Season 3, episode 6. Similar to what we saw in many points but different in one crucial one. Oswald invites Edward to dinner at the mansion in the hope of confessing his love to his Chief of Staff. But as we all know, Edward never shows up because he meets and is entranced by Isabella. As Oswald waits over the cooling food, increasingly anxious, he is suddenly distracted by strange sounds unfolding upstairs.Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 6





	The Rustle of Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy this little one-shot. If it is well-received, I might turn it into a full-length story. But for now, I'll just spin this little tale and hope that it gratifies those who read it.

"Life only gives you one true love, Oswald. When you find it, run to it."

Those were the words that Oswald's dear mother had told him, time and time again, for years. Now, after all this time, he finally understood why. He had learned of the tragic, but tender, love that his parents had shared. They had come from two different worlds: one from privilege and high standing, another from menial labor and immigration. And yet, they had fallen in love. Even after all these years - over three decades, in fact - Father had never forgotten Mother, to the point that he had brought lilies to her humble little tombstone.

Now, the same thing was unfolding with their son. Only this time, it would have a happy ending. After a magnificent dinner, coupled with a marvelous wine that Edward was in the process of buying right now, Oswald would at last confess his feelings. No doubt encouraged by the wine, he would tell Ed of how close he felt to him, how he felt that he could tell him anything, how he trusted him like no other. How Edward made him feel like he was worth something. And how badly Oswald wanted them to be partners in every sense of the word.

To calm his nerves, the new mayor of Gotham had gone to great lengths to ensure that the evening would be perfect. He had the cooks dish out seemingly endless amounts of food, in order to guarantee that Edward would enjoy at least some of what was served. The best china was used, the finest silverware. Candelabras were placed neatly among the throng of steaming platters, burning brightly in the otherwise dim chamber. A fire was lit in the chimney, filling the room with additional light and warmth. The room was further cleaned and perfumed until, if one so chose, they could examine their reflections in the polished floorboards. Once their tasks were completed, the staff were dismissed for the evening. Oswald wanted Ed all to himself tonight, especially if all went as he so desperately hoped. The staff did not put up a fight. Especially the cooks.

Oswald himself took even greater care in his appearance than usual. After a thorough bath, he doused himself in cologne and gelled his hair with all the attention that a sculptor would put into carving a marble bust. His clothes, too, were as elegant as ever: a black jacket, matching pants, a crisp white shirt, and a red silken scarf tied around his neck. Looking in the mirror, and briefly remembering the first (and only) time he would try out a suit with his father, Oswald at last felt ready. Beneath his well-pressed shirt, his heart pounded harder than a steam-hammer. 

By seven o'clock, everything was ready. Oswald, jittery as can be, prepared his words beforehand.

Before he knew it, eight o'clock rolled by, announced by the gentle chiming of the hallway clock. Edward did not show.

Oswald did not mind. Or at least, that's what he told himself. 

***

If the store's clock was accurate, then Edward was already ten minutes late to his and Oswald's dinner appointment. Normally, he would have been in a frenzy to make up for this tardiness as quickly as possible. But on this occasion, he found himself taking his time. He could not choose between two bottles, and he did not currently have the cash to buy both.

Surely, when he arrived and explained himself to Oswald, then his friend would understand. Oswald understood him better than anyone.

"Impossible to pick the perfect bottle, isn't it?" A woman's voice, strangely familiar, reached Edward's ears. A sense of nostalgia prickled at him. He shook it off as he put one of the bottles back in its proper place. "Well, it all depends on region and vintage." Peering at the rest of the selection, he found nothing that quite hit the mark. Turning towards the voice, Edward added, "Of course, you have to consider the wine pairing."

The first thing he saw was the head of platinum-blonde hair, elegantly piled back into a bun. Doll-like. Immaculate. New.

Everything else about her was painfully, terribly, wonderfully familiar.

It was a miracle that Edward did not drop the bottle he was holding.

The woman, the mirror image of his first love, the face who had haunted his dreams for what felt like forever, offered him a soft smile. She approached him cautiously, as though he were a fawn. The light above their heads bathed her in an almost ethereal glow. Edward could only stand and stare, his mind producing nothing but static.

"Miss Kringle?" The name hurt to say. 

The woman blinked, and suddenly she was someone else - at least a little bit. "No. No, my name is Isabella." She looked away for a moment, shy, before speaking up again. "I'm sorry to bother you. I usually don't talk to people. There was just, um, something about you..." Already she was drifting away.

Just like last time.

Like a falling man reaching for support, Edward acted quickly. "No, no. Please. There's nothing to apologize for." She faced him again, her visage glowing with hope. Edward lost himself in those bottomless green eyes. His previous engagements, all of his thoughts before this moment, began to fade like cloth bleached of color. He swallowed hard, fighting the lump that had formed in his throat. "You...remind me of someone that I used to know. A long time ago." Before he had given in to his true self and embraced his inner darkness. Before he had freed himself.

Before Oswald. 

Edward looked away, his cheeks flushing with shame. He examined the bottle still in his hands, deciding that it would be best if he took his chances with it. Even so, he could feel the woman - Isabella, not Miss Kringle - approaching him. Could hear her demure footsteps. Could almost smell her floral perfume. 

"You struggle to regain me when I'm lost." That angelic voice spoke again. "You struggle to obtain me."

Edward turned to her, incredulous.

"What am I?" Isabella shyly met his gaze, her own twinkling with wit. 

"Time." Edward answered. Looking into that familiar face. As though no time had passed at all.

Isabella beamed, and his heart was hers.

"I'm Edward. Edward Nygma."

***

The food cooled all around Oswald, who nursed his third glass of wine. Even though he could not see it, he could hear the clock announce that two hours had passed since his and Edward's date. At this hour, many would be going to sleep. But he was not tired, despite having spent a long, arduous day in office. He was too worried to be tired. A plethora of possible horrors swirled in his head, each more repulsive than the last. Had Edward been mugged? Stabbed? Shot by one of Oswald's many enemies? Had he fallen down a manhole and broken his neck? Was he still alive, but too weak or injured to move?

Unable to fight off his terrors any longer, Oswald called every hospital in Gotham. They all gave the same, infuriating answer: that no one with the name 'Edward Nygma', or matching Ed's description, had arrived in the last three hours. When Oswald did the same with the GCPD, inserting quite a few threats here and there, he was fed the same response. Still not satisfied, he contacted everyone on his payroll: an extensive list, to say the least. Once again, he ran into a five-mile brick-wall that was the answer: no one had seen Edward Nygma, never mind done him any harm. Oswald hung up with far more force than was necessary. Then, crashing into the nearest armchair, he broke down into sobs. Loud, keening wails that he was grateful no one was allowed to hear.

Oswald never would have believed it if he hadn't just witnessed it. But, here it was. Staring him right in the face, and laughing at him for being so naive.

Edward Nygma, his only friend, his partner, the love of his life, had stood him up.

He clearly had not come to any harm, which left only one conclusion: that he was being delayed by something else entirely, and that 'something' had clearly surpassed their date. 

How could Oswald be so foolish? How could he let a few months of conversation and laughter distract him from the truth - that, with the exception of his mother, he was unlovable. He had learned that fact back in middle school, when the girls would take turns putting faux love notes in his locker, only to bray in his face like donkeys later. Those wretched girls had shown him the truth with their cruelty, and every other girl - and boy - since then had made it clear that he was far from their idea of 'perfect'. Each time, it had stung. Even when he had pretended that it hadn't. Even when he had stayed home on both his junior and senior prom, refusing to be the object of everybody's mocking pity. Mother hadn't minded. She'd been thrilled to have her son there with her, as opposed to being with some 'hussie'.

And yet, Oswald still found his heart leading him astray. First it had happened with Jim, the man who had spared his life on the pier. Whom he had seen as a friend and something even more. The one he'd tried to get close to, favor by favor, and had even gladly lied for. The torture he'd endured at Arkham, too, had been a silent declaration of love. Of devotion. Only for him learn - quite harshly - that Jim would only ever come knocking if he wanted something from Oswald. The rest of the time? When he had everything he wanted and was seen as a good cop? Oswald was just another criminal. Trash to be thrown away. 

And now, Oswald's heart had flown its way into Edward's hands..only to be crushed like cheap porcelain.

The mayor was about to refill his glass, the tears still wet on his cheeks, when something caught his ear. Something coming from outside. A rustling. 

Oswald paused, listening intently. The sound carried on. It was definitely a rustling. The type that brought to minds birds taking flight. If it was a bird, it was bigger than any Oswald had ever seen.

Before he could consider going up to see this mysterious creature, the sound abruptly stopped. An uneasy silence settled over the mansion. Oswald barely dared to breathe. Fear caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. At the same time, his killer instinct was stirred.

More sounds unfolded above his head. These ones, however, were far more common. A window sliding open. Feet moving across the floorboards, which creaked in protest.

There was no doubt about it. Someone was in his house.

Oswald's jaw set. His sorrow and pain temporarily forgotten, he rose with the help of his cane. Deftly, he grabbed a knife from his place at the table. It wasn't as sharp as he would have liked, but it could still puncture flesh and spill blood if used aptly. 

Slowly, he climbed up the steps. Listening as the noises continued. Stalking his prey. With each step, his anger and indignation grew. Whoever this was, they had a lot of nerve. Or a death wish. All the same, Oswald felt something akin to gratitude towards the intruder. They had provided him with a much-needed distraction. The blood would be difficult to wash from his clothes, but the thrill of the kill would be worth it.

At last, Oswald made it to the source of the noises. Right on the other side of a guest room door. Tightening his hold on the knife, the mayor opened the door an inch, maybe less. He wanted to see where the intruder was in order to plan his attack.

What he saw next, he would later convince himself, was a result of drinking heavily for hours.

A lamp on the nightstand had been switched on, chasing the shadows away. With its light, Oswald saw that the window had indeed been open. He could feel the draft flowing in even from where he stood. A stove, too, had been activated. The intruder was crouching in front of it, warming their hands. Said hands were small and delicate, with blue nail polish. An oversized, bulky coat the color of mustard covered most of the intruder's form, but it did not hide the tangle of dark brown hair tumbling down to the waist. The intruder had her back to Oswald, so her face remained a mystery. But even if she had been turned towards him, Oswald would not have noticed. He was too busy examining what else was occupying the intruder's back.

They were four large, shimmering protrusions, rippling with a life of their own. Each one was long, easily four feet in length, and roughly the shape of a flower petal. They caught the light, glinting with a dozen different colors. Cobalt. Aquamarine. Turquoise. Jade. Forest-green. Baby blue. Grass-green.

Oswald blinked hard. Kept his eyes closed for a minute before opening them again. The absurd image stubbornly remained the same. Those things continued to swell and swish on their own accord. Like living things.

With a savage cry, Oswald burst in. The intruder spun around, eyes wide. Seeing the knife, she scrambled to her feet. Mindlessly, Oswald bolted towards her. Those things on her back - _her wings_ \- turned to bluish-green blurs. Defying gravity she moved upwards like a rocket. Within seconds, she was pressing herself against a corner where the wall and the ceiling met. Their eyes met from a long distance. One set was filled with anger, with torment. The other, with undiluted fear.

"What are you doing here?!" Oswald screamed. "Who are you?! _What_ are you?!" He held up the knife for the intruder to see. She may have been out of its cold, silver reach. But he still grasped it. 

"I-I-I'm sorry!" The intruder stammered. "I-I didn't mean to barge in like this! I was just looking for a place to rest for a bit! If I had known this was the mayor's house-"

"There are plenty of abandoned buildings in Gotham!" Oswald cut her off. "Knock yourself out!"

Despite her fear, the intruder had the gall to pucker her face in disgust. "Those places are full of rats! I don't wanna rest there!"

"Not. My. Problem!" Oswald's voice grew louder with every word. Still pointing the knife at her, he pointed to the open window. "Now get out before I cut off those things on your back and mount them on my wall like a stag head!"

The intruder's face became the color of chalk. All the same, she only moved to hold up a hand in a pacifying manner. "Okay, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Maybe we should both take a breath, and start over."

Oswald scowled.

The intruder inhaled deeply. Then, as she slowly exhaled, she met Oswald's eyes. It was only then that he noticed that they were a soft blue color, akin to denim. He was almost convinced that he'd seen such eyes before. That puzzlement was enough to give him pause - for the moment. He examined the intruder more closely, and saw an olive-skinned woman maybe a couple of years younger than he was. Her wild, dark brown hair hung down like vines. A pair of aviator goggles rested on her forehead, keeping her tangles out of her face. Aside from the twitching wings behind her, and her odd choice of accessory, she looked no different than any other woman he might pass on the street. 

Sensing Oswald's decreased aggression, the intruder placed a hand on her chest. "Hello. My name is Fleury."

Oswald snorted. "That is not a real name."

"It most assuredly is," came the calm reply. "And, again, I'm sorry that I broke in like this. I don't live far from here, and I thought that the owner of this big, fancy house wouldn't mind if I just rested for a little while. I..." She faltered, suddenly sheepish. "I can't go home. Not yet."

"And who are your parents?" Oswald asked mockingly. "Puck and Tinkerbell?"

"Oh, ha, ha." Fleury sarcastically replied. "That's so funny. Last time I heard that, I laughed so hard I fell off my mammoth."

Oswald would never admit it, but he was kind of impressed. It wasn't every day that he met someone who would so brazenly talk back to him while he pointed a knife at them. Granted, she was at a point where he could not harm her. All the same, he found his hostility ebbing. "How do I know you didn't come to steal something?"

Fleury gestured to herself. "Do I look like I came here to steal? I don't even have a backpack." This was true. Underneath what could only be a man's overcoat, she was dressed casually: a gray sweatshirt and jeans, both so baggy as to make her figure impossible to assess. Oswald twirled the knife between his fingers, contemplating. "Just going out for a joy-ride, then?"

Fleury smiled sheepishly. "Girls just wanna have fun, man." She hesitated, her eyes flickering from him to the floor. "Can I come down now, or are you gonna turn this into a slasher movie?"

Oswald weighed his options carefully, all the while playing with his knife. At last, he sighed and gave her a nod. Even if he had still been in the mindset to kill her, he couldn't reach her until she descended. She did not seem to want to do him any harm. With this...unique asset of hers, she might even be of use to him. Then again, trust was a rare thing. Near impossible, some would say. That was why, as Fleury fluttered down, Oswald kept the blade close. Brushing herself off, and pushing some of her untamed hair out of her face, she flashed him a smile. Her hand thrust out. For a split second, Oswald feared that she wanted to attack him after all. But then, he saw the gesture for what it was and felt incredibly foolish. Sighing, he shook her hand. Her skin was soft and warm, and her grip was firm. 

It was not the type of physical contact that he had hoped to have tonight. But it was better than nothing.

"That's better." Fleury sighed as they pulled away. She shook her head, drinking in the sight of him. Oswald shifted uncomfortably under her wide, open gaze. A gaze that so painfully reminded him of Edward's. "Wow. I never thought I'd meet the mayor today!"

For the first time in what felt like ages, Oswald snickered. "Yes, well, I never thought that I would meet a...whatever you are." He tried not to think about how fascinated Edward would have been by all this. How he probably would have whipped out a notepad and a pencil and begun interrogating Fleury all about her wings. The image made Oswald's chest ache. 

Fleury, oblivious to Oswald's inner turmoil, crossed her arms. "I'm quite human, thank you very much." Her demeanor softened. "Look...I'm sorry. If you want me to leave, I will."

"No, no." Oswald shook his head, turning away. "You can stay...for a while." He added, trying to inject some bass in his voice. "Or else."

Fleury nodded mutely. Oswald shambled away, suddenly very tired. He sensed the woman seating herself on the bed, watching him, as he took his leave. His growling stomach led him to his next destination, while his heart wept blood.

***

A small plate of food, now hot to the touch courtesy of the microwave, sat on a tray. Oswald stared at it, trying to compel himself to eat. He had assembled this plate, after all. And his stomach was practically singing opera by now. He needed to eat. Abstaining from food would not make Ed magically materialize. Although, truth be told, Oswald would have fasted himself to near-death if it meant seeing Ed. It had only been hours since he'd seen him, but it felt like years. Emotions had a wonderful and horrific power to alter time as they saw fit.

Oswald picked at his food. His body craved it, but his mind did not. It was as though the connection between the two had been severed. His desire for wine, however, remained unencumbered.

He had just downed his fourth glass since returning downstairs when a figure emerged from the shadows. One in a yellow overcoat, and with wings growing out of her back.

Oswald, dizzy with alcohol and heartbreak, eyed her from his armchair. She was keeping a respectful distance, but even so, he felt shaken by her very presence. "What is it?" He managed to keep most of the pathetic whimpering out of his tone. 

"Um..." Fleury fumbled with her hands, as if playing with an invisible toy. "I just...nothing, really. I was just...wondering how you were doing."

Oswald glared at her. He could sense no dishonesty in her tone. But he still had his doubts. People could - and did - use the truth for untruthful purposes. "How touching. Well," he gestured to the tray, "as you can see, I'm doing just fine. So can you kindly flit back to wherever you came from?"

"I will. Sure..." Even so, Fleury lingered. Her denim-blue eyes searched his face, his body, his entire essence. Like he was an ancient rune that she was trying to translate. "Do you mind if I grab a bite before I go? I've been flying around for hours, and the last thing I ate was a peanut butter sandwich hours ago."

Oswald shrugged. The sanctity of this night had been shattered hours ago. Why should he bother trying to fix what was broken? He pointed at the table. "Go on. Hopefully something suits your fancy."

Fleury grinned. Her teeth were slightly crooked, but Oswald found that they oddly suited her. They gave her smile character. "Thanks!" Her wings came alive again, and she was in the adjoining dining room in seconds. Oswald watched her, eerily entranced, as she put a plate together. Still grinning like a cat that caught the canary, she piled her dish high with meat pies, fresh fruit, and hard cheese. Then, with another rustle of her wings, she was before Oswald yet again. Holding her plate close, she claimed the armchair positioned in front of his. The fire blazed between them, chasing the night's chill from their bones. Fleury leaned towards it, humming contently, before facing Oswald again. "Thank you."

Oswald waved her thanks away like a pesky fly. "It's no bother."

"No, really. Thank you." She held his gaze when she said that. Rooting him to the spot. Her stare was so intense, so all-seeing, that it shook him. Now, even more so than before, Oswald was convinced that he'd seen those eyes before. But where?  
Silently, the two tucked in. For the sake of courtesy, Oswald nibbled here and there. Fleury, by contrast, ate as though she'd been starved for several years. She had her plate cleared in record time, and picked at the crumbs afterward. Leaning back into the armchair, she sighed. "That was nice. My compliments to the chef."

Oswald managed a weak little laugh. "I'll be sure to pass them on."

Fleury pistol-shot him with her finger. They sat in quietude for another few minutes before she sat up, pushing some tendrils out of her face. "So," she drawled, "is this how the mayor of Gotham spends his nights? Leaving a feast on the table so he can pick and choose his dinner?"

Oswald stared down at his tray. Focused on his breathing. "No." He said slowly, steadily. "It's not."

A moment's pause. Then: "Oh." 

Another brief silence lapsed. Fleury played with her hands some more, picking at her nail polish. Her eyes landed on him for a few seconds before shifting away. At last, she spoke. "Did you...I mean, were you...expecting someone?"

She may as well have pierced his heart with an arrowhead. Oswald closed his eyes to stop more tears from falling. "I really don't see how it's any of your business."

Fleury raised both her hands, palms out, to show surrender. "Okay, sorry. Do you want me to change the subject?"

"I want you to leave." Oswald hissed, his hands clenching into fists. "How much rest does a creature like you need?!"

Fleury looked a bit hurt by his words. But not enough to get up and walk away. Her jaw set. Yet when she spoke again, her tone was calm. "Okay. I'll go." She rose, pulling the aviator goggles over her eyes. "But can I say one last thing before I do?"

Oswald harrumphed. But he did not say 'no'.

"Whoever you were waiting for," Fleury said, "is a fucking idiot to have missed out on you."

Oswald stared at her. Desperately wanting her to leave, even as a contrasting desire began to build up within him.

Fleury nodded. "Okay. Bye, now." She began to leave the room, walking past Oswald's seat as she did so.

That was when Oswald's hand, white and clammy and trembling, latched itself to her arm. Fleury stopped, blinking down at him. Oswald felt ready to cry. It took all of his willpower not to. "I'm sorry." He whispered. "Please. Could you...stay a little longer?"

***

And so she did. For several hours into the night, while Edward and Isabella were enraptured in conversation, Oswald and Fleury did everything from play chess to watch TV to have their own little wine-tasting event. During that time, Oswald did his best to make up for the hostility that he had displayed earlier. Fleury, in turn, put it behind her with ease. She accepted his shift in behavior with joy, and returned that joy tenfold. Bit by bit, Oswald felt the weeping wound in his heart close, if only a little bit, and his dark spirits lifted. Edward's absence was still fresh in his mind, as hot and agonizing as a brand. But it no longer made Oswald scream with heartbreak as it had earlier. Eventually, he was lulled into a sense of comfortable companionship that he had only ever felt with Ed.

It allowed sleep to finally catch up to him. Just as the sky was beginning to lighten, no less.

Sound asleep, he didn't notice Fleury drape a blanket over him. He didn't see the tender look in her eyes as she watched over him. Nor did he feel the light touch of her lips pressing against his hair. And he most certainly did not hear the window opening, followed by the rustle of wings.


End file.
